“Are they sad?” he replied. “They seem unutterably, unutterably sad,” said Ursula, out of a passionate throat. “I don’t think they are that. They just take it for granted.” “What do they take for granted?” “This—the pits and the place altogether.” “Why don’t they alter it?” she passionately protested. “They believe they must alter themselves to fit the pits and the place, rather than alter the pits and the place to fit themselves. It is easier,” he said. “And you agree with them,” burst out his niece, unable to bear it. “You think like they do—that living human beings must be taken and adapted to all kinds of horrors. We could easily do without the pits.” He smiled, uncomfortably, cynically. Ursula felt again the revolt of hatred from him. “I suppose their lives are not really so bad,” said Winifred Inger, superior to the Zolaesque tragedy. He turned with his polite, distant attention. “Yes, they are pretty bad. The pits are very deep, and hot, and in some places wet. The men die of consumption fairly often. But they earn good wages.” “How gruesome!” said Winifred Inger. “Yes,” he replied gravely. It was his grave, solid, self-contained manner which made him so much respected as a colliery manager. The servant came in to ask where they would have tea. “Put it in the summer-house, Mrs. Smith,” he said. The fair-haired, good-looking young woman went out. “Is she married and in service?” asked Ursula. “She is a widow. Her husband died of consumption a little while ago.” Brangwen gave a sinister little laugh. “He lay there in the house-place at her mother’s, and five or six other people in the house, and died very gradually. I asked her if his death wasn’t a great trouble to her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he was very fretful towards the last, never satisfied, never easy, always fret-fretting, an’ never knowing what would satisfy him. So in one way it was a relief when it was over—for him and for everybody.’ They had only been married two years, and she has one boy. I asked her if she hadn’t been very happy. ‘Oh, yes, sir, we was very comfortable at first, till he took bad—oh, we was very comfortable—oh, yes—but, you see, you get used to it. I’ve had my father and two brothers go off just the same. You get used to it’.” “It’s a horrible thing to get used to,” said Winifred Inger, with a shudder. “Yes,” he said, still smiling. “But that’s how they are. She’ll be getting married again directly. One man or another—it does not matter very much. They’re all colliers.” “What do you mean?” asked Ursula. “They’re all colliers?” “It is with the women as with us,” he replied. “Her husband was John Smith, loader. We reckoned him as a loader, he reckoned himself as a loader, and so she knew he represented his job. Marriage and home is a little side-show.